


Fuckin’ Tomato

by Ros3mary



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blushy boy, M/M, Pining, Simmons is basically a siren
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-02 12:54:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19199245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ros3mary/pseuds/Ros3mary
Summary: Simmons blushes too much. Grif enjoys it too much. They’re both idiots.





	1. Grif is weak

Simmons blushes too much.

He gets flustered too easily, and every time he gets flustered, he blushes. So, a lot.

The man doesn’t even have the decency to sport a soft, pale pink, no, his whole face lights up bright red, even going down his neck and chest sometimes.

Grif enjoys it too much.

When Simmons starts blushing, if his helmet’s off, Grif turns to look at him every time. So, a lot. 

The man has the idea firm in his head that Simmons is some sort of siren, because it’s so hard to do anything but agree when he’s blushing like that. It’s underhanded, really, absolutely diabolical.

They don’t talk about it.

 

Usually Simmons wakes up an hour at least before Grif, as he takes the time to shower every day, brush his teeth and floss, start working before it’s even required of him, and sometimes tinker on his mechanical bits. Maintenance. You know how it is. 

It’s rare that the two are getting ready at the same time, but it happens. Like if Simmons slept in, or Grif jolted awake at three a.m. and hadn’t slept since.

It’s not too important. The point is, today’s one of those days, and Grif’s just tired enough to be stealing too many sidelong glances at Simmons over the sink, blinking heterochromic eyes at Simmons’s equally sleepy slouch and messy bedhead. He’s got a tuft of hair sticking straight up on the back. He’s probably going to cut it soon, Grif thinks, because he’s got a persistent boner for regulation even though they’re technically not in the army anymore, and it’s a shame because his hair when it grows out is spiky and messy and really unfairly cute. 

Grif leans sideways towards Simmons, bumping the taller cyborg’s shoulder. “Hey. Simmons. Let’s just go back to bed. No one will notice, I swear. I do it all the time.” 

Simmons looks over and blushes darkly, probably at the proximity, and starts talking. He’s probably lecturing Grif, as usual, but it takes a massive amount of his concentration to pay attention to what Simmons is actually saying and not just the way his mouth is saying it.

“-so can you please just do your work today?” Simmons wraps up, eyes darting back up from rinsing his toothbrush to Grif, who in all honesty hadn’t looked at anything else the whole time.

Simmons is still blushing, and it’s really quite unfair how hot it is, lighting up all his freckles and making his rust coloured eyelashes darker, drawing attention to the emerald hue of his organic eye...

“Mhm,” Grif murmurs, distractedly. He pulls away and finally wrenches his gaze away from Simmons, but not entirely, because he’s still looking at the cyborg in the mirror. Trying to memorize how Simmons’s flush is bleeding down his neck and past the collar of his shirt, wondering how far it goes, if it darkens the freckles on his shoulder like it does his face. Yknow, normal heterosexual I’m-just-looking-at-my-straight-buddy things.

“Wait, really? You’re going to do your work?” The corner of Simmons’s mouth twists down, and the flush fades slightly. Not enough to soften the focus on his freckles and eye, but enough to notice that his skin is pale underneath. He doesn’t entirely look like a tomato now.

Grif is starting to realize the hole he dug himself into, but Simmons still looks so good that in all honesty Grif might to anything asked of him. He thinks about the unfairity of the situation and the siren like abilities of Simmons for a little bit before he answers. “Yeah. Why not.”

“Why not?” Simmons repeats, looking completely and utterly out of it. “I can think of a whole lot of reasons why not. It’s effort, you don’t like work, you have a reputation to uphold, you’ve avoided work for years now, it’s effort-“

“Simmons.” Grif finally interrupts, sounding tired, giving the redhead’s reflection a flat stare. “Are you talking me out of doing work?”

Simmons splutters and blushes, visibly pulling away. “No-! Yes? No, I’m just, it’s so unlike you, I wouldn’t, it’s-“

Grif heaves a sigh, as if watching Simmons get himself more wound up and flustered in the space of a few seconds is something he doesn’t enjoy immensely. “Shut up, Simmons,” he breathes out with his sigh. “You’re confusing, and I have work to do.”

Simmons cuts himself off with a strangled sounding whimper of confusion, and in order to preserve his dignity and trickling away masculinity Grif doesn’t look over at the wet-dream worthy blush Simmons is probably sporting. 

_Damn it_ , Grif thinks with a mental sigh. _Now I actually have to do work today._


	2. Simmons blushes aggressively

Despite the obvious "lazy" reputation that Grif has, there is a reason he avoids work. Mainly, it's boring as fuck, and if it's not boring, then it's actually hard. There is no in-between. 

For example: Grif has only been quote unquote working for an hour and a half and he's diffused two fights between the News and the Feds, equipped all the morning patrols with weaponry, and organized so many orders for the armoury he actually feels like he knows his way around at this point. Which is, obviously, unacceptable. It was also hot as hell in here, with no windows anywhere for obvious reasons, but also being very close to the training area, where lots of hot bodies were, and where the sun was trying it's best to squash the efforts of a very small, very insignificant planet of soldiers trying their best to not be squashed. Therefore, while it was not allowed to be out of armour not in one's room, Grif had his helmet on an empty bit of shelf, and his short brown hair sticking up everywhere from constantly running his hand through it, and his pale skin drafts flushed with the heat and sweat glimmering on his forehead and his neck- yeah, it was fucking hot. And Grif was angry about it. He was angry about a lot of things, being stuck in this armoury for the rest of the day a big portion, for several reasons. 

The last authorized patrol order had come in twenty minutes ago, and Grif already accepted the request, submitted the update in the armoury's datalog, gotten the order ready, given it out when the requester came to pick it up, and lightly scold a few soldiers before another New vs. Fed fight broke out. 

Currently, he was skimming an unauthorized order (by which it was not sent in by a rank higher than lieutenant) and trying to decide whether or not he should fill it. Oh, that was another one of his jobs: if some stupid private dropped his gun in the jungle or wasted all his bullets on a rock it was up to Grif to accept (or deny) said idiot's mess-up. Which was bullshit. What if Doyle or someone important ordered twenty soldiers to be outfitted with plasma pistols, but Grif only had nineteen because he'd authorized some random to have a replacement? It was too much pressure. Effort! Not pressure. Grif didn't  _get_ pressured.

Besides, Simmons's sorry ass was supposed to be helping him, but Grif hadn't seen him since breakfast. Another point of bullshit. Simmons had preached about doing work today, and the cyborg was nowhere to be found. 

Grif sighed through his nose. He accepted the order, moved over to the armoury's computer and input the order into the datalogs, then spent way too long getting distracted once he realized the pistol and shotgun bullets were too close and therefore confusing and time-wasting, more importantly wasting Grif's time when he stopped to organize and correct the mistake. 

"What fucking idiot fucked up my organization, what kinda bullshit acid was this bitch on to put the bullets so goddamn close-" 

"Grif?"

The orange soldier stilled, then turned, eyes locking on Simmons's figure at the armoury's entrance.

Grif's hands dropped away from the crates of bullets, and he turned with his hands on his hips to the other. "Well well well. Where the fuck have you been? I've been here, doing all this work by myself, which we were supposed to be doing together. You know, we were both stationed at the armoury? But, of course, if you feel the need to get up and fuck right off don't let me get in your way, it's not like I'm organizing the weaponry input and output of two fucking armies by myself here-"

"Uhhh," Simmons interrupted. He was shuffling his feet, and Grif couldn't see his face, but assumed it was safe to guess the former was blushing. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I'm here now though, so."

Now, Grif wasn't some sort of red-head expert, but he recognized that tone of voice. It was "nervous-flustered-and-confused", which was pretty standard for Simmons, but it also had a tone of "attracted-and-a-little-angry-about-it". 

Here's the part where Grif should keep his fucking mouth shut, but he'd never been one to follow orders.

"Simmons." He said flatly, arms moving to cross over his chest, "are you getting turned on by me doing work?" 

If it was possible to physically raise the temperature just by violently and aggressively blushing too hard, Simmons accomplished this. 

"No!" He spluttered. "That's-! That's fucking stupid! Why would you even say that, so- so wrong, no, definitely not. Not what I'm doing, or is happening. No."

Grif sighs. "Okay, dude, whatever you say. If you're not going to help me then fucking leave, it's way too hot in here."

Instead of rushing in to screech about proper organization, jack off to correctly filed datalogs, or any other form of work, Simmons spins on his heel and leaves. Just leaves. Grif runs his hand through his already-fucked-hair and turns back to the bullets. 

That was unexpected.


End file.
